


I will be (everything I'm not)

by allollipoppins



Series: Blood and Chocolate - YoI 2018 Valentine [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alpha Victor Nikiforov, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Hannibal (TV) Fusion, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Dark Katsuki Yuuri, Dark Victor Nikiforov, Hermaphrodite/Intersex Omega, I'll let you decide, Implied Mpreg, Implied Virginity kink, M/M, Omega Katsuki Yuuri, Voyeurism, or are they really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-17 11:56:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13658490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allollipoppins/pseuds/allollipoppins
Summary: "But instead of joining Yuuri’s hand with his own, his hand slips under his fingers, raising his knuckles to his lips. Nikiforov’s smirk grows impossibly larger as his mouth comes closer. “I knew I had seen you somewhere. Dr Katsuki, your reputation precedes you.”“Victor Nikiforov, at your service” he completes, eyelids fluttering shut as his lips touch the back of Yuuri’s hand, the tip of his nose brushing his phalanges.Oh yes. Definitely a wolf."4 times Yuuri saw the predator that lurked beneath his husband's surface (and the one time he took actions about it).





	I will be (everything I'm not)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Suzuran_Cigue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzuran_Cigue/gifts).



> Part one of my dark Yoi Valentine series, that comprises 4 parts.  
> Each story is dedicated to a different, special person in my life, but in spite of that each of them is first and foremost a gift to everyone. Whether you are familiar with my works or you are a newcomer. Because romance is overrated and I love you all to bits :)  
> I'm a little dissapointed with the way this ends. It is very rushed due to timing and scheduling reasons, so I might consider expanding it later. We'll see :) 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own neither YoI nor Hannibal (which is only slightly ripped off). All text in italics was provided by waywardfannibal.com, with slight modifications to fit the context.

**(i)**

 

**Tattlecrime.com**

**Hisashi Morooka**

 

**From:**

**THE WILD BOAR**

**ON THE HUNT AGAIN?**

 

“ _It appears that the Wild Boar has struck again after a long absence. His latest victim, Dr. xxx xxx, prominent Detroit psychologist was found earlier today. A gruesome slaying, that appeared to have caused the victim great physical distress, can only be the work of…”_

 

They meet on Valentine’s day, of all days to meet new people. Though not a Lonely Hearts party for the single and ready to mingle but rather a cleverly-planned, over-the-top office function. Formal, for Yuuri is certain no one at the BAU sends invitations in paper as fine as the one tucked in an equally tasteful envelope.

 

“ _Mr Victor Nikiforov requests the pleasure of your company for dinner._

_Wednesday the fourteenth of February_

_at eight o’clock.”_

 

The letter, of course, is not his own. He’s never had the pleasure of being in the same room as Victor Nikiforov, FBI consultant extraordinaire and Director Feltsman’s protégé. Phichit, being the best friend he is, insisted that everyone would be coming with a plus one, and that as such he simply _had_ to bring Yuuri with him. The only reason why he doesn’t decline is because Phichit was adamant on dragging him out of their apartment and that neither he or Yuuri could possibly stay in on Valentine’s day of all days. Besides, Phichit had added with a wink, he and the host were bound to get on given their proclivity for studying minds and probing sociopaths. How lovely.

He regrets his decision the moment he crosses the threshold leading the way inside the house. Scratch that, he regrets everything the moment he catches sight of this… mansion-like domain. There is no way this is a cop’s home, or if it is he keeps himself better than most people that have gone through the doors of his practice. Too much order, too much coordination between furniture and colour and space. On the same line, he can’t bring himself to refer to Mr Nikiforov’s dinner as one. “Banquet” or “feast”, Yuuri ponders as he takes in the luxurious, quite opulent interior, would be much more appropriate. They’ve only just gone through finger foods more sumptuous than any entrée he’s ever been presented with, and they will have an eight-course meal to dig through. Eight! Yuuri couldn’t remember the last time he had seen so much food in his life, bar his parents’ kitchen.

His treacherous psychoanalysis habits kick in before he knows it. Alpha, evident if not for the scent that inevitably throws him on the line. Rich, probably sitting on a significant family fortune of which he is the sole heir. Most likely a superficial charmer, given how he managed to get about the entire BAU in his sitting room – even Agent Leroy, the rudest person he knows by reputation – with his fancy invitations only. Narcissist with a shark smile. Gifted with astounding intelligence, and likes to show it off. A taste for refined arts, he notes with mirth at the painting of Lada and the Swan only displayed over the fireplace.

Phichit had deserted a few minutes in to look for colleagues of his, leaving him on his own long enough to spot their host, talking a few feet away with his guests.

Cop, his instincts ring a bell inside his mind. The mannerism is there, the way he fills the room with his presence only. Doesn’t dress like one though, nor does he eat like one, obviously. Not a trace of grease on his impeccable suit-and-tie, a snug and elegant fit that follows the powerful line of his back and slope of his broad shoulders. His hair is a pale, almost ash-blonde shade that reminds him of freshly washed, carded merino wool. But he’d be damned if that man were actually a sheep. The polite smile stretched across his lips is a dead giveaway. Well-mannered enough, unlike his ruddy fellows, if the way he subtly shifts away from his companions under a polite excuse along the lines of attending the other guests is any clue. A form-fitting person suit threatening to slip away. He looks almost so out of place Yuuri can’t help but chuckle lowly.

And that’s when the alpha catches sight of him and their eyes meet.

It's in his eyes. Definitely the eyes. The way the Russian gazes at him from across the room, champagne flute held in one hand and the other tucked in his pocket in a carefully-crafted air of nonchalance. Half-lidded eyes that speak of a long day and night, the blue of twin pools undisturbed save for the way they seem to grow with every step he takes towards Yuuri. Like an ocean about to crash into him and swallow him whole into its depths.

And his scent, God his scent. This man smells like the sea. A cool breeze that seems to be permeated in his skin, his breath, even his touch has its essence tattooed in, skin deep. It has the quality of salt, a coppery, rich scent that he would recognize anywhere, heady and marred with traces of smoke that pass as well as charcoal or musk. Quite the heady combination. It makes Yuuri want to bury his nose in the junction between his neck and shoulder and just breathe in. Find out what he smalls like underneath those clothes, deprived of all superficial, exterior nuisance like the alpha’s cologne – which, albeit lovely, is far too proeminent and overshadows his delicious scent. No wonder the world appears to gravitate around him as if he were a solar system of his own making.

All of this, and so much more, he realizes before he becomes conscious that the man is standing right in front of him, extending a hand between the two of them.

“I don’t think we have met, have we?”

Composed but lacking a cool edge, polite but not dry. Inviting, with a slight accent that Yuuri files inside his mental file. Eastern European, points towards Russian.

Yuuri smiles back, mirroring his smirk the best he can without sounding prim. The host doesn’t miss the way his gaze shifts briefly to Phichit, who’s absorbed in a conversation with Guang-Hong and Leo on the other side of the room. Nor does Yuuri miss the way in which his eyes darken.

“Well, I was counting on Phichit to introduce me, but I’m afraid I’ll have to make-do.”

Mr Nikiforov chuckles good-humouredly. “Quite a shame. But at least that means I won’t have to steal you for myself.”

Yuuri makes to take his hand. “Dr Yuuri Katsuki. I’ve consulted for the BAU a couple of times. Perks of being Phichit’s roommate.”

But instead of joining Yuuri’s hand with his own, his hand slips under his fingers, raising his knuckles to his lips. Nikiforov’s smirk grows impossibly larger as his mouth comes closer. “I knew I had seen you somewhere. Dr Katsuki, your reputation precedes you.”

“Victor Nikiforov, at your service” he completes, eyelids fluttering shut as his lips touch the back of Yuuri’s hand, the tip of his nose brushing his phalanges.

Oh yes. Definitely a wolf.

 

**(ii)**

 

**Tattlecrime.com**

**Hisashi Morooka**

 

**From:**

**IS THE WILD BOAR**

**COOKING UP A STORM?**

 

“… _subsequently breaking a year-long cycle that had been customary in the psychopath’s preferred hunting methods. His reappearance in the public eye, seem to be sending a strong message to law enforcement, particularly Agent Yakov Feltsman of the FBI who has been set on catching the Boar for many years now…”_

 

“I am so into you right now…”

Yuuri looks back at him over his shoulder, from where he lounges on the upstairs deck of their hotel room.

Their balcony looks out onto the ocean, a long and endless, breathtaking stretch of blue that meets with a cove-beach of pure white sand, smooth to the touch and fine as powdered sugar. Outside, tourists and locals alike frolic in the water together, throwing water at each other and relishing the warmth of the clear water, while the adults lie on multicoloured towels and take in the sun, and their children build sandcastles with utmost concentration. Architects in the making, already erecting palaces in their mind. Victor had gotten them only the best suite for their honeymoon. The house was a peaceful cocoon bordering the sea, opened on tropical garden foliage and a swimming pool, the interiors modern and fresh. And yet the king-size bed remained the crowning piece of their vacation, on which Victor sat with covers bunched up to his hips.

His eyes are a clear, versatile blue he still can’t put a name on. If he squints he can find that shade about anywhere: in the folded arms of his glasses, crashing into a reef and foaming like the sea waves back in Hasetsu, shiny as the fish scales he chips off on the nights he longs for Japanese cuisine rather than American, the ink that flows from the interchangeable number of pens he collects for writing his reports and his diary, the seamless silk of his wedding kimono. But nothing beats the original, even duplicated into different hues.

His pupils blend with the morning sky, the azure ring surrounding his pupils brimming with reddish orange, like the beginning of a steep fire. Interested, focused in a manner he’s only seen a couple of times printed on double pages of yellow press. Lost in contemplation of something only he sees and understands.

“What’s on your mind?” Yuuri drawls. What do you see, the unspoken question goes, swept away from the tip of his tongue by a warm breeze. What are you thinking about, looking at me the way you look at your corpses?

“You,” Victor answers, standing from the bed in a swift movement too fast and yet too gradual for him to notice. “Only ever you.”

The sincerity in his voice tugs at something in his chest. “Is that so?” Yuuri asks playfully.

Victor hums, so close now his arms cage him, lips lazily nuzzling at his new bond mark. “As a matter of fact… I was thinking that red would be a splendid colour for you.”

One look at Victor’s kiss-swollen lips, and he is reminded of the previous evening’s… activities. The scrape of teeth grazing every inch of pale skin it could find, nipping at his inner tights and sucking purple marks into them. A long, expert tongue lapping as the folds of his pussy, delving deeper until Victor’s nose was buried in the tufts of hair curling above his cunt. And then the drawn, tortuously slow then fast-paced, obscene squelch of skin slapping against skin. Victor’s cock sheathed deep inside him, reaching for spots Yuuri didn’t even know he possessed, until his lover’s fingers had parted them like petals and found themselves within his depths. And then the warmth, the wholeness that spread through him when Victor came inside him, long spurts of cum that filled his core as Victor knotted him. Yuuri shivered at the memory of it dripping down his tights and under him, dirtying the bedsheets. Some of it, long dried, still pearled under the nightshirt he’d pulled on to cover his dignity.

From where Yuuri stands against the bannister, he has the perfect view of the bed. Sheets messily drawn back and swirling on the mattress, its pure white centre only tainted by a red circle. A flower in bloom, its previous garnet shade having shifted to brick overnight. If Victor had stared a second too long at the blood stain in the middle of the bed, after their first time, he didn’t comment on it last night. If anything, he had been almost entranced by the crimson ropes that had fallen onto the bedding, resting between Yuuri’s tights, moreso than he had at the sight of his own seed slipping from inside Yuuri.

When Victor raises a hand to caress his cheek, he nuzzles it with the tip of his nose, then takes it with his free hand to move it downwards. His hand is a perfect fit, palm cupping him just so and fingers lingering on all the right spots. Victor’s breath hitches, a low growl that makes Yuuri smirk.

“What if someone sees?”

Yuuri shrugs then leans in for a kiss, pulling Victor. “Let them.”

 

 

**(iii)**

 

**Tattlecrime.com**

**Hisashi Morooka**

 

**From:**

**THE WILD BOAR:**

**DISSECTED**

 

“… _named as such by local authorities due to this disposal and presentation of his victims. Each of them showed skin and deep tissue lacerations, most proeminent on the face and chest. Buccal examination determined that while there were tissue remains of tongues inside the mouths, the muscle itself was missing in its entirety along with posterior aspects of thighs and legs on the rest of the bodies.”_

 

Yuuri only starts to create rituals for himself when they return to Detroit.

In retrospect, he had nothing to complain about, when he has it all. A husband and a mate, a career that is slowly but surely taking off even though consults are scarce and most of clients are old acquaintances from school in need of a second opinion. A house he can call his own, and even a dog. He just hadn’t expected it to come so fast. Their romance, like their wedding, had been a whirlwind from the start, and it had yet to finish.

Victor is his, and his alone, just as he belongs to Victor. And he has the marks to prove it, which he smugly exposes while feigning ignorance or coyness should they be exposed. Victor always makes sure to mark him thoroughly, from renewing the bond mark etched on his collarbone, to burning lines of hickeys down his throat and on his hips and tights. The first times Yuuri had done his best to hide them under clothes and make-up, but with time he had started to wear more revealing clothing. Tank tops, open-collared shirts, shorts… He smothers down the smile on his lips when others catch sight of the love bites and the kiss-bruised lips.

Even the betas can feel it, smell it on him even though their olfactory cognisance aren’t as developed as his. The salty scent of morning sex barely camouflaged by deodorant, Victor’s cologne sticking to his clothes, the slightly damp spot between his thighs that isn’t a result of post-workout sweat and the nearly imperceptible limp in his step that has nothing to do with overworking his ankles. And oh, how good it feels. To be watched, to be envied and desired so.

Sadly, not everyone is as enthusiastic as he is about their marriage.

Their community priest comes more often than not, on the pretext of checking on Mr. Nikiforov and his new bride – whose wedding he hadn’t officiated. A regular occurrence, especially when they have never stepped foot inside his church. What bothers Yuuri most – and what he hopes Victor hasn’t noticed thus far – is that he tended to come around the house during their more… private hours.

Father Brown’s eyes flicker over him in a way that makes Yuuri want to rush back home to a cold shower and scratch his skin with sandpaper until he bleeds and forgets the look he threw at him. It simply makes his skin crawl, the way he focuses on his stomach, flat under his light Sunday clothes. And here he’s made the effort of foregoing his work suits for the sake of church, of all things. Only a few months united by the bounds of holy matrimony and not a baby to compensate for their troubles. Such a shame. And poor Victor, the most eligible bachelor of the bunch, bonded to a middle-class, foreign, working omega.

He’d had the gall to give him advice, a small, condescending smile tugging at the corners of his lips. The whole “Lie back and think of England” jibe, a taunt that told him everything he thought of Yuuri’s kind. Both he and Victor nods in sync to his jabs, the latter not even noticing the way Victor’s arm tightens considerably more around his waist.

That night Victor fucks him more roughly than usual.

That comes as a surprise. Usually Yuuri has to beg to make Victor give him what he wants, tightening his hold around him, wrapping his legs around his waist until he is so deep he can feel him all the way in and just push. But given the morning’s events his reaction is quite logical.

Victor hadn’t even bothered with clearing away their empty plates before he had pounced, pinning Yuuri to the glass pane opening on their garden with enough fervour to make him forget about the good priest. Funny thing, matrimony. You’d think a guy would get tired of seeing his spouse naked, given how many dead bodies he saw on a regular basis. By the time they are both naked and Victor has him pressed against the window, Yuuri is fully aware that Victor intends to make him scream so loud they will drive the neighbours green with jealousy.

And that’s when he sees him, carefully hidden behind bushes, the glint of moonlight over his glasses giving away his position.

His breath fogs against the glass, momentarily obstructing his view of Father Brown until a sudden thrust causes him to push forward, fingers snatching helplessly at the glass. His palm slaps the pane as Victor drives his member inside him repeatedly with impatient slides, hips moving so sharply he can feel his balls slapping his clit. Even with a good inch of glass and the garden separating them, he is positive the good Father can read his moans on his lips, hear them vividly from his hideout.

How good is his vision, anyway? Can he see the way Victor’s cock bumps inside him, rising under his skin, visible through his stomach? Can he tell how much of Victor’s semen and his own slick trickles down his tights when they haven’t even come yet?

When they both finally come, heavily panting and hunched over each other, Yuuri remembers to check as Victor presses kisses into his neck. Father Brown is gone.

If they don’t hear from Father Brown the next week, or the week after, then neither of them mentions it.

 

 

**(iv)**

 

**Tattlecrime.com**

**Hisashi Morooka**

 

**From:**

**IT TAKES ONE**

**TO KNOW ONE**

 

“ _Local law enforcement and the FBI were not available for comment. This reporter is continuing to investigate and will bring you updates as they become available.”_

 

“ _The FBI isn’t just hunting psychopaths, they’re head-hunting them, too, offering competitive pay and benefits in the hopes of using one demented mind to catch another. Sure, we’re familiar with the stereotype of the FBI profiler, swaggering onto a crime scene, fitting the pieces together like a master puzzler with his 1000-piece jigsaw. In reality, these profilers should be likened to harridans reading a cup of spent tea leaves – passing off their active imagination as incisive fact.”_

His husband’s weariness transpires through the tablet screen. Yuuri tilts the device as he takes in how tired Victor looks in the clandestine pictures Morooka took of him on the crime scene. Without his glasses in place, sporting a three-day stubble and trousers that had seen better days, Victor looked… different didn’t even begin to describe it. Used as he was to him being impeccable in appearance and attitude, seeing him in such a scruffy manner felt almost like an invasion of privacy. For an expert on behavioural analysis, he hated to be psychoanalyzed. It never helped that a thousand questions constantly wormed their way inside Yuuri’s head, so used to analysing people’s minds for a living. It made the line between genuine concern for his husband and interrogation only so much thinner.

He shuts the screen when he key turns in the lock. In comes Victor, shoulders hunched slightly over his large frame, carrying in his bag what appears to be more folders. Homework.

“Long night?” Yuuri asks as he raises his head, awaiting his kiss.

The signs are there, the tell-tale, unmistakable hints that his husband had had a rough day. He doesn’t even need to ask; Yuuri knows Victor better than anyone else, including better than Yakov Feltsman, and if not for the look on his mate’s face their bond told him everything he needed to know.

Victor doesn’t let any of it through, however, grumbling slightly instead of humming, but gratefully pressing his lips to Yuuri’s own. They are, he notes, a little slack over his mouth.

It bothered him more than he would like to admit, not being able to provide for the two of them, not being able to do anything more. With Victor as the breadwinner of their little household, and even with his few visits, there is little time left to see each other these days. The FBI executives kept him awake until long past midnight, and when it isn’t work doing it, it’s the nightmares, or the insomnia. Most nights Yuuri goes to bed alone, or most mornings he wakes up alone, only to find Victor cuddled on the couch with Makkachin at his feet. At least he is protected.

Victor parts from him. “I’ll go get started on dinner.” No question, and no statement. Almost a mechanical reaction that formed part of an endless cycle.

Yuuri doesn’t answer, nor does he go after him; Makkachin does that well enough for the both of them, trailing after his master on the way to the kitchen, no doubt sensing the treats he’ll receive. A lot goes unsaid in his silence, though he wonders if Victor can even hear him.

“I’ve missed you,” he thinks, “even though I saw your face on TV not so long ago, while you were bent over a body and yelling at crime scene technicians for their incompetence. This is only the third time in a whole month that you come back to me, smelling like blood and decay.”

How do I know if you will ever come back to me? And if you do, how – who? – will you make your way back home?

 

**(v)**

 

**Tattlecrime.com**

**Hisashi Morooka**

 

**From:**

**HOW THE WILD BOAR RIPS:**

**AN EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW**

 

“ _Something terrible lurks within the walls of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Though many inmates at this Maximum Security “rehabilitation campus” boast some of the most horrific homicides on the Eastern Seaboard, one man has recently emerged as a different kind of killer. His name is Dr. Abel Gideon. And strong evidence has surfaced that he’s far more than a mild-mannered alpha surgeon who cruelly murdered his wife. Maybe, just maybe, Gideon is the most sought-after serial killer at large – a killer who’s eluded the FBI for years and has baffled their most “gifted” profilers. That serial killer? None other than the “Wild Boar.” This would explain why the Ripper’s been silent for more than two years.”_

 

Yuuri remains nearly unfazed in the face of one Minami Kengirou sobbing loudly in the living room, unsuccessfully stifling the hiccups tearing at his throat. He studies him inscrutably before finally taking pity of him and pushing the tissue bow his way. Minami readily wipes his eyes and nose, then tosses the used tissue on the side table. Ignoring it feels much too easy to do. It’s almost too funny to watch. A young alpha, crying so vehemently in front of an omega he feels too familiar with.

“I hate feeling this neurotic,” his patient moans, eyes cast down.

Yuuri shakes his head. “Don’t be. If you weren’t neurotic, Minami-kun, you’d be something much worse.”

Minami raises his eyes in silent enquiry, prompting Yuuri to continue.

“Our brain is designed to experience anxiety in short bursts, not the prolonged foamy lathers of duress your neuroses seem to enjoy. It’s why you feel as though a lion were on the verge of devouring you.”

He leaned closer on his seat, Minami unconsciously following his motion.

“You have to convince yourself the lion is not in the room. When it is, I assure you, you will know it, and I will help you battle it.”

 

“You’re being awfully quiet tonight. Did Morooka catch your tongue?”

Yuuri sips away at his water, watching distractedly as Victor picks at his own food with little interest, too busy with the folder resting beside his plate.

His glass of wine sits untouched before his plate, and Victor will start to notice anytime soon. It is Yuuri’s personal favourite, an authentic white Moscato d’Asti with a low alcohol concentration and the Italian DOG seal of approval, sweet and sparkling on his tongue and a welcome addition. But he hasn’t even reached out to touch the glass, only taking sips from the accompanying glass of water.

He shakes his head. “Just a bit tired. I had a patient in after talking with Morooka, and he wouldn’t leave.”

“Minami?”

“The one and only.”

As a rule they never talked about work at the dinner table, especially not when patient confidentiality was concerned. But the intrusion of Morooka, the blasted man, in their home, couldn’t have gone unspoken. Of course the good journalist had heard of Yuuri through close-knit connections, his subtle way of saying that he’d been keeping close track of Victor Nikiforov’s new life and his little omega wife, who just happened to have experience in psychiatry and wasn’t that such a great opportunity to compare notes and dish on the killer roaming the streets of Detroit?

He’d even relented and dedicated him a column at the end, if that was even the appropriate name for these things anymore. Barely a block of text, a small luxury given the amount of material Yuuri had also given him on the Copycat Killer. He wouldn’t even dare to call Dr. Gideon the Wild Boar. It was too soon to make a statement. Only a few months left before the Boars’ last act, and then he wouldn’t be able to make a move until at least a year.

“Look at it on the bright side” Yuuri sighs into his glass. “At least now Morooka won’t be bothering you for some time now that his killer is already behind bars.”

Victor grumbles. Yuuri feels sorry for him. The circles under his eyes, the tension palpable in his shoulders.

Soon, a small voice whispers at the back of his mind. Just a little longer, and he will be free.

He stands to move behind his husband, tip of his fingers digging lightly into Victor’s spine. He leans back against his seat, sighing softly, and moves to make space for him as Yuuri settles on his lap.

“What’s gotten into you?” Victor teases, but there’s no mistaking the slight hitch in his breath.

From where his head rests in the crook of Victor’s neck, he peppers small kisses that make Victor’s arms tighten around him. His eyes stray to the photographs spread across the table. The body of a man open like a tree trunk, with vines and branches entwined through the corpse. His chest cavity split open in messy, albeit precise gashes with the better part of his organs missing, save for the lungs. Amid the branches was strewn a bouquet of orange lilies and orchids, laced with pomegranate seeds scattered within the ribcage and cradled by extended palms.

Passion, love and fertility.

Yuuri sighs, nose buried in Victor’s scent gland.

“I have something to tell you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, kudos and bookmarks are always appreciated :)  
> I'm @allolippoppins on tumblr & @AriLioN355 on twitter. Hmu!


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